


Drift

by Lythlyra



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-28
Updated: 2011-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-25 00:53:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lythlyra/pseuds/Lythlyra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If nothing else, the tension, fitting like a second skin whenever they're both in the room, keeps the voyages interesting. (Fenris/Anders slash and F!Hawke/Isabela femmeslash.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drift

**Author's Note:**

> This is from Hawke's point of view, so what she sees or knows of the other side of the coin (Fenris and Anders) is limited. I'm toying with a "missing scene" for them, to be written whenever it wants to cooperate.

The ship rocks, and Isabela simply sways with it, at home on the water; Hawke can't help but notice it every time, that the measure of grace and ease are even more natural here.

  
She has a vague idea of it before they take to the sea, before they flee Kirkwall, before the others leave and whittle their number down from so many to so few -- _four_ now -- but seeing it day in and day out makes her reconsider how much of Isabela she has yet to discover.

  
If the wolves at their heels will allow it, she intends to spend the rest of her days finding that out, but they're not alone or a part of one of Varric's tales, a life of romance and danger on the high seas.

  
There is still Anders, shadowed by his cause and his guilt in equal measure, and there is still Fenris, scarcely able look at him without going from quiet to angry.

  
What tenuous attraction they once accepted between each another is in ruins, splintered and fragmented with the walls of the Chantry.

  
It's something she can understand -- it's how she remembers feeling when Isabela explains what the relic is, when she disappears with it but returns at the Keep, and it takes months for her to be able to trust a word she says in the aftermath -- but it isn't something she can fix.

  
If nothing else, the tension, fitting like a second skin whenever they're both in the room, keeps the voyages interesting.

  
\---

  
Varric is the only one who knows their routes, their plans, and although he's off on adventures of his own, he uses generous estimations of time and distance to send letters, business, and funds to the next port. It doesn't matter how many years she spent in his company or at his side. She doesn't quite _understand_ how he manages to accomplish all of it.

  
She's never been more thankful for it.

  
They spend a night on land, in an actual _inn_ with functioning _baths_ , and it's sweeter for the way that Isabela fits perfectly in it with her, lazily running fingers down her arms and over her thighs.

  
It's peaceful before the familiar voices in the room next to theirs become heated snarls -- _Fenris_ \-- and torn retorts -- _Anders_ \-- and Isabela rolls her eyes once, shifting in the water only enough to tip her head back and raise an eyebrow at her.

  
"What?" Hawke asks.

  
"I almost missed that," Isabela muses, the corner of her mouth quirked.

  
"Over-inflated posturing?" There's a thump against the wall, and Hawke is starting to disentangle herself until Isabela stops her.

  
"No, no. If you go over there, you could be ruining _fantastic_ make-up sex!"

  
And they both laugh because they know that it will never be as simple, as easy, as that.

  
Instead, they have enough sex to compensate for them -- or so that's how Isabela explains it.

  
Hawke thinks it's a compelling argument.

  
\---

  
They leave the city behind and return to the thing closest to home that any of them have, open waves and balmy air.

  
When the winds calm and the ship quiets with it, Hawke falls asleep under inviting blankets and Isabela.

  
One of those things changes during the course of the night, when she wakes up to find the other half of the bed empty, the sheets cold. It's curiosity that makes her search, but it's realization, when she finds her on the deck, that gives her pause.

  
Isabela is lounging on a cargo crate while Fenris paces a personable distance away from her, speaking in a voice so even it's difficult to hear.

  
She watches them from the shadows of the door, waiting but not intruding; she understands what this is because she understands _them_.

  
Fenris is confiding in Isabela, who knows what it is to be at the center of the storm, to have all eyes turn to her in accusation and question, because he doesn't know what else to do about Anders.

  
It's a private conversation, something they can do without her, and she withdraws to settle at the table, still able to make out the shapes of them through the dirty windows.

  
She eventually realizes she's no longer alone.

  
"They've been out there for awhile," Anders says when he sits as well, rubbing a hand over his tired face.

  
"I know."

  
"It doesn't bother you?"

  
"Should it?" She humors him; she already knows that it shouldn't. That's precisely why it doesn't.

  
The furrow of his brow is thoughtful then, but eventually, he shakes his head. "I know it's not like that."

  
"But?"

  
"Whatever he's saying to her, I wish he'd say it to me." It's frustration more than jealousy, evident in the weary sigh he heaves.

  
Her smile is sympathetic. "I think he's said plenty." Accusations and anger, easily carrying through the walls of cabins and inn rooms alike.

  
To Fenris, it is the personal betrayal at the hands of _another_ mage. To Anders, it's freedom to mages that is long overdue, despite the cost.

  
They never quite see that neither of them are entirely right.

  
"Yes." Despite himself, he gives a short, gruff laugh.

  
There's a brief silence that's not entirely comfortable before he finally speaks again.

  
"Why did you do it?"

  
And Hawke doesn't need to ask what "it" is; Anders is alive and here with them still, and she knows it mystifies him, that he turns the wonder of it over in his head in endless circles.

  
"Because I think that if I didn't, not fixing _this_ would be another regret on your very long list."

  
Her head tilts in Fenris' direction, but that's where Anders' eyes already _are_.

  
"And if it never gets better?"

  
"Then at least it can't get any worse."

  
\---

  
But it does.

 

Word reaches them whenever they're at port, word of mages and templars, the dissolution of Circles and the retaliation of the Chantry, and it is all they can do to set sail again and keep Anders with them before he does something rash.

  
He often stalks the ship in the late night hours, even when there are only stars and water to see, and Hawke is convinced that he might eventually jump overboard and swim off in a righteous rage until the night that the ship is boarded.

  
They're asleep when thumps and voices and noises draw them out of their cabins and up toward the deck; they don't make it that far before heavily armed, angry men head them off.

  
The shouts and demands of Isabela's skeleton crew, the rough and tumble sailors that are kept quiet and pleased with what little coin and adventure they find these days, are already engaging someone -- several someones -- overhead.

  
But here, below the deck and in the shadows, there's little room to fight, closed in by walls and ceilings and floors, and even less room for error, but Isabela and Fenris are mobile battering rams, bodily _pushing them back_ and forcing them to give up ground. Hawke sees the gleam of daggers twirling, slashing, the flare of lyrium, and she follows them, Anders close behind, weaving magic and offering cover when they _can_.

  
And when the bottle neck is cut down, shattered, and they surface and _finally_ see sea and sky, it's so much worse than she originally thinks.

  
The intruders are searching crates and tossing supplies overboard, breaking anything else, the ship included, that stands in their way, and there are _too many_ of them to count.

  
"My poor _baby_ ," Isabela gasps, genuinely horrified at the carnage done to her ship -- and then suddenly, _determined_.

  
Before she can dash off, Hawke has her around the wrist. "Not yet."

  
She looks to Fenris, a look she's given him countless times. There is a nod in return, and he's gone, a _streak_ of light across debris, weaving around bodies of enemies and crewmembers alike, drawing their attention and confounding them in the same breath.

  
There are already cries on the air, blood on the floor planks, when Hawke says, " _Now_."

  
Isabela isn't seen so much as she is _felt_ , a specter in shadow, a dancer with daggers, striking true and hard -- and with Fenris and she in the fray, it's Hawke and Anders who pick off the others with flame and force and arcana, who bolster their attacks, who watch their backs.

  
It's slow, it's agonizing, as if she can see them fall one by one; their assailants might simply be sloppy, or Isabela might know the ship better, or Anders might be that efficient, that vigilant, a healer, or it might be all sheer, blind luck, but they're all standing while those bastards are falling, and it's an invigorating rush that she can't remember feeling in so many months.

  
And then it changes.

  
There is a hiss, a tumble of curses in a language she doesn't know but a voice that she does, and her eyes land on Fenris, on someone embedding two vicious blades into his upper back, on him turning around and returning the favor with an unforgiving gauntlet through bone and sinew.

  
As the rest fall under Isabela's blades -- abandoning the game she plays with her targets, rushing to help him, Hawke can tell -- Fenris cants forward until he meets the deck's floor as well, hardly able to hold himself up on hand and knees.

  
Anders is there, at his side, before Hawke is able to move.

  
It's a blur of magic, a familiar rippling of the Veil that she can feel along her skin, but they are soon moving a weakened, though no longer bleeding, Fenris to his cabin, where Anders continues to work on him.

  
When Hawke tries to do more, tries to help, she is only chased off and ignored, but she knows someone else that might need her just as much.

  
\---

  
She's leaning, palms braced, against a half destroyed railing when Hawke finds her, scowling over at the abandoned ship that, originally, carries the assassins. That it has yet to leave means one thing: Isabela charged, swam, swung, or did _something_ to get over there and see things for herself.

  
Hawke is quiet for a moment longer before she finally stops beside her and asks, "What's the damage?"

  
"She's a mess, Hawke," she huffs, her lips a pout that is still somehow sultry and inviting, "but she'll sail to port."

  
"That's what I like to hear." Grinning, she presses her lips to Isabela's temple, to the hint of hair that stubbornly peeks out from beneath the cloth. "And the supplies?"

  
"A shipment, actually. I'll have some explaining to do, but they have a way of seeing reason. My reason anyway."

  
"A shipment? Of what?" And that's the least of her questions; all of this is news to her.

  
"A lady has to have _some_ secrets, Hawke."

  
The arch of her eyebrow makes it clear that's an excuse she isn't going to buy -- that secrets are what tore them apart before, shred by shred, and Isabela seems to sense it as much as she does -- but she lets it slides for now.

  
"I suppose you didn't find anything about who they were."

  
"Maybe I did, but it'll cost you mind-blowing sex later."

  
Hawke's smile is easy, as is the flush at her cheeks, when she jests, "I can make the payment."

  
"Then here." From the front of her tunic, she pulls out a rumpled, blood-stained missive -- whoever she pried this from was truly unlucky -- and hands it over.

  
The scrawl is messy and coded, but there are few things that remain obvious: someone knows the ship carries the Champion and the "Revolutionary," and they're interested in them for reasons not specified.

  
"We'll have to change our plans," Hawke finally says, her frown growing deeper as she reads over the lines again and again.

  
"You think I already haven't? Don't insult me, Hawke." There's a quirk of the side of her mouth, but it fades when she gazes over the short distance and spots the enemy ship, still bobbing in the water. "Burn that sodding piece of rubbish, would you?"

  
And Hawke is only too happy, when flame sparks at his fingertips and channels in a burst, a blast, to do just that.

  
\---

  
Along with the crew, she scrubs the decks, she hauls splintered wood, and she salvages what she can until her _back_ aches.

  
They aren't even halfway done, but seeing the mischief return to Isabela's eyes, the reassurance in her step, makes every bit of it absolutely worth it.

  
When the sun begins to dip below the horizon, they scatter and rest at last.

  
Hawke checks in on the odds and ends, the little things that have to be kept in order at the end of a long day -- mostly, feeding Anders' cat and her mabari -- before she finally wanders back to Fenris' cabin.

  
A grim, concerned Anders often chases her away while Fenris rests, but this time, she's determined to get a word in, to have some sort of proof that they're both holding up.

  
When she sees the door slightly open, she doesn't knock -- it's hard to shut her out, urge her away if she's unannounced -- but eases it wider instead.

  
What she sees is an answer all its own: the arch of Anders' bare back, the fold of Fenris' lanky, tattooed legs around his waist, and there is _movement_.

  
As quietly as she arrives, she backs away, closing the door behind herself.

  
\---

  
"And you just left?" Isabela crows, something between laughter and curiosity, stretched like a lazy cat among the blankets.

  
"Well, yes. There are some things I just don't want to know about my friends." Just talking about it brings heat back to her cheeks. "My point is I... think they've reaching an _understanding_."

  
"The best kind of understanding," Isabela agrees, lifting her dark eyebrows in invitation.

  
Hawke moves toward her as if she's physically pulled, and for how much she cares to resist, she might as well be; her fingers rest against the swell of Isabela's hip, against dusky, supple skin, and when their noses brushes, when their lips press, it's familiar and grounding.

  
She thinks she knows how this will go, how this will end, but Isabela is always surprising her. Even now.

  
"Hawke," she manages to say, with what seems like genuine effort. There's a curious furrow between her eyebrow, one that Hawke rarely sees.

  
"Is something wrong?"

  
"No. And that's the _point_."

  
Hawke laughs. "I'm... sorry?"

  
Isabela rolls her eyes as easily as she rolls onto her back, folding her hands behind her head, but the casualness is still betrayed by that puzzlement, that wonder, that earnestness. "I saw you, you know. Out there. Cleaning up."

  
"Earning my keep," she shrugs, lifting fingers to brush them through Isabela's dark hair.

  
There's a look, a deeper question, but then her head shakes. "It... meant a lot to me. That's all. It's not a big deal."

  
And she knows what Isabela is really saying -- _it means a lot to me that you care about what's important to me, too_ \-- as if it's some revelation that people can be this way together, that they can coexist without eclipsing, without taking and leaving ruins in their wake.

  
Hawke knows that this is what it's been about all along, a balance that Isabela fears and scarcely believes in but walks every day for her. For both of them.

  
"I'd beg to differ."

  
And she does; she begs to differ with her mouth, her tongues, her hands, and maybe in this much, Isabela will finally understand.

  
\---

  
"Fold," Anders sighs, letting the cards fall flat onto the table and pushing them away as if they're a personal offense.

  
It's a fate that soon befalls Hawke, too. This is how it _always_ ends, a battle of wills between Isabela and Fenris, the last hold outs in the round.

  
Isabela rolls her eyes. "You know, you might have more luck if you watched your cards instead of him."

  
"What? I don't know what you're talking about."

  
"I almost believed you. If you put half that effort into your game, you might win a hand. Just a piece of friendly advice."

  
Hawke _thinks_ she hears a brief sound, a snort perhaps, from Fenris, but he barely looks anywhere else, says anything else, except for one, clear word: "Raise."

  
"See? _He's_ fun."

  
Anders leans back in his chair, arms folded. "You don't know the half of it."

  
"You are assuming that you do," Fenris finally points out, raising an eyebrow at Anders.

  
There's a look that passes between them, with a significance Hawke doesn't understand, but it has Anders shifting where he sits, the faintest hint of an unreadable smirk at the corners of his mouth.

  
When the cards are shown, when the game ends, Isabela takes the winnings, and even Fenris has a smile, fleeting and small, for her good-natured gloating.

  
It's surprisingly comfortable, more than she can recall the ship being in a long time -- and Hawke has to wonder how it is that while the ship is broken, sailing on makeshift repairs and no small amount of good fortune, it's the people that are beginning to mend.


End file.
